


Everyday Blues

by calime



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-30
Updated: 2005-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:36:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calime/pseuds/calime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, everyone thinks Methos has a profound reason to avoid fighting...Just, sometimes truth's no stranger than fiction. I'm just sayin'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyday Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: Not mine, except the headless corpse. I asked the Santa (not for the corpse, the others), but I don't really put much hope in it. Not betaed.

Methos hated Challenges with a vengeance.

Not so much for the risk, or even the hard work involved in ensuring that he would come out of it with his head attached. Not so much for the Quickenings that fried the brain and left him floating in a nauseous haze.

The part he hated most of all was cleaning up afterwards.

Somehow everyone seemed to assume that his aversion towards fighting had some dark, dangerous, mysterious reason. Hell, MacLeod probably thought he worried about losing control and turning into a raping, ravening, murdering beast. Hah.

Strange how they tried to project their own weaknesses onto him, Methos mused. Joe thought he was a Quickening junkie on rehab.

He'd tried telling Joe the truth once. The response had been disappointing.

'Joe, it's just that I have a bad back.'

Snort. 'Ha ha. Pull the other one, it's got bells on. Next you'll be telling me you have a bad heart. You're immortal, remember?'

Methos frowned at the memory. So much for trying to be honest. Joe did not seem to grasp that 5000 plus years of hauling bodies (not to mention that one rarely had a chance for a proper warm-up before a Challenge) could do damage to one's spinal disks that even the immortal healing had trouble dealing with. Bad heart…even that might be close to truth. If one looked at it in a certain way.

Methos bent to grasp his latest (and late) opponent by ankles. 'Fuck. Double fuck. Fucking TRIPLE fuck,' he swore when a fresh white-hot flash of pain shot from his lower back to gnaw at his left thigh.

Gritting his teeth against the pain he managed to drag the corpse to the riverbank. Some more fumbling, and the body was properly weighted with a piece of railway rail (that he carried around in the boot of his car for just this purpose - not being a boy scout did not mean one could not be prepared) tied to its ankles and the head (neatly packaged into a black garbage bag) secured inside the coat the corpse was wearing.

Some more dragging and swearing and the body disappeared with a satisfying splash! Just as well that the banks were steep here... Methos shuddered at the thought of actually having to slosh through the cold water to drag the body deeper.

Now, that left only the irritating backache to deal with. Cursing in approximately five different languages was definitely not doing the trick any more. Methos limped back to the car, only to discover to his chagrin that there were no painkillers left in the medical kit.

Easing himself into the drivers' seat proved excruciating and using the clutch pedal gave a whole new meaning to the word 'torture'. Somewhere in the pain-numbed brain an idea took shape.

The barge - Mac should have some painkillers. And if he didn't, he could bloody well go and get some.

Methos clamped his jaw and with a groan eased the car into next gear. Yes, that was a good plan. Mac's, painkillers. And beer. A good, numbing combination. And Mac had this couch where it was easy to sprawl in a way best suited to his poor, abused back .


End file.
